XXXIX. To the Muses.

Prepare your wreaths, Aonian maids divine, To strew the tranquil bed where I shall sleep; In tears, the myrtle and the laurel steep, And let Erato's hand the trophies twine. No parian marble, there, with labour'd line, Shall bid the wand'ring lover stay to weep; There holy silence shall her vigils keep. Save, when the nightingale such woes as mine Shall sadly sing; as twilight's curtains spread, There shall the branching lotos widely wave, Sprinkling soft show'rs upon the lily's head, Sweet drooping emblem for a lover's grave! And there shall Phaon pearls of pity shed, To gem the vanquish'd heart he scorn'd to save!